


Whispering Wards

by thundercrackfic



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heaven and Hell really need to get more creative, Other, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sex Magic, ineffable sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundercrackfic/pseuds/thundercrackfic
Summary: Heaven and Hell set a dangerous trap for Aziraphale and Crowley. The ineffable husbands develop a way to work magic together to protect Aziraphale from future attacks, with sexy results.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 110





	1. Ritual

Aziraphale presses his face into black silk sheets, his hands clenched at his temples. Crowley kneels between his feet. He drops light kisses on the angel’s plump calf as his long fingertips dance over the adjacent skin. His fingers and lips move slowly upward, pausing at the back of the left knee.

Aziraphale draws breath sharply at the light touches to sensitive skin. He exhales raggedly through moving lips. Why are his lips moving that way? He’s saying something, but it’s indistinct. It’s in a language that has never been spoken by humans. There are consonants, gutturals, vowels, a hint of melody, but the sounds don’t resolve. They take on a frantic tone as the demon’s fingertips and lips move up the white thigh. Crowley has now covered every inch of the back of Aziraphale’s leg with caresses, and he’s nosing into the crease above the thigh.

The demon smirks, just slightly, but his smirk is moving. He’s mouthing words, too. He pauses long enough to nip at a plush buttock, eliciting a cry, and then he sits back on his heels. He’s whispering continuously as he caresses the spot of the bite, then runs his hand lightly across to the other cheek. Crowley’s words are different from Aziraphale’s, even less recognizably human. They’re full of sibilants and clicks, like the skittering of insects, mirroring the quick motions of his fingertips brushing down the back of the leg to the other foot. There, he leans down and begins the light touching and lipping at the angel’s skin again, working slowly up the right leg. 

It’s very intimate. But there is something off about this intense encounter. The actions should be playful, and they’re clearly pleasurable, but there’s an undercurrent. Something deadly serious in the room, a threat, or the fear of one.

Crowley has reached the crease at the top of the other thigh. He bites at a cheek again, as if to punctuate what he’s done, and sits up. “Is--are you--” he stammers, a little breathlessly. The tip of one finger draws a slow, widening spiral around a naked angelic hip.

Aziraphale pauses his muttering to speak, and Crowley immediately starts whispering again, letting no moment pass without sound. “Yes, I’m all right,” the angel says, his voice a little breathy, but resolved. “Keep going.” And he starts muttering again, as Crowley leans down to begin on the fingertips of Aziraphale’s left hand, his thumb, the palm, touching, nibbling, licking, whispering.

Whatever they’re doing, it’s agonizingly slow. Crowley covers each hand, periodically tickling fingers up the back of the arm over the shoulderblade to the center of Aziraphale’s back, swirling, there, then returning them whence they came. In this way he works his way up to each elbow, along the triceps, to the round shoulders. He pauses his whispering again, says “take it for me a moment, angel,” and waits to hear Aziraphale’s muttering strengthen. Crowley then leans down to drop a lover’s kiss onto each of Aziraphale’s palms and wrists. Aziraphale’s eyes are closed and he whines in arousal, but his voice doesn’t stop. 

Crowley shifts position, knees now on each side of Aziraphale’s hips. He settles down, his balls nestling into the gap under the angel’s buttocks, his cock cradled between voluptuous cheeks. He gives his erection no other attention, instead reaching up to run fingers through the angel’s hair, touching and rubbing his scalp.

Crowley leans down to press his face into blond hair. His ribcage expands as he inhales long and deep, filling his lungs with air drawn through the angel’s curls. From the expression of rapture on Crowley’s face, it seems it smells good to him.

Their two heads are close. Their low speech blends. The angel murmurs rhythmic syllables; a scholar would recognize epic hexameter. Are his mutterings recited poetry? In contrast, the demon’s whispers seem random, hisses and pops like crackling static, then susurrating sibilants whispering across skin. Their disparate vocals weave over and under, and every few minutes the demon’s hissing syllables align with a word from the angel with a slap, like fugal counterpoint resolving to a single dominant note.

The demon’s fingers tickle behind the angel’s ears, down the back of the neck. His lips follow, mouthing meaningless words into the skin. (Meaningless to humans, that is, but any demon would recognize them and be scandalized.) Crowley opens his hands on the expanse of the angel’s back, the fingertips kneading, circling.

The motions of the fingers – they seemed random earlier, but now it’s clear that they are not. They are neither mindless caresses nor repeated patterns. The fingertips make whorls here, move in straight lines there, like he’s drawing, or writing.

He’s completed working on the angel’s upper back. Whatever Crowley’s doing to Aziraphale, it involves touching every inch of his skin. There’s not much of Aziraphale’s posterior presentation for him to cover. But Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s back again, working at the inner edges of both shoulder blades. Aziraphale sighs and stretches his neck under Crowley’s hands luxuriantly. Crowley’s hands seem to levitate. Now they are working several inches in the air; he’s writing his finger-patterns and whispering his kisses at the roots of Aziraphale’s invisible wings.

Down he moves. His cock has dribbled precome into the hollow of Aziraphale’s back, and his fingers move into and out of it, the liquid getting traced onto the angel’s skin and then vanishing moments later. He takes his time over the angel’s buttocks and he’s panting now, on the edge of losing control. His hands begin to shake and his words to stutter.

Aziraphale twists to look at Crowley, reaching for one of his hands. He locks their eyes together and rubs Crowley’s palm with his thumb, hard. He continues his own insistent murmuring, its volume low but its rhythm, relentless.

After a few moments, Crowley settles, regaining self-control. Aziraphale releases his hand and reaches for a pillow to stuff under his hips.

Crowley takes a deep breath. “Ready?” he asks in between whispers.

Aziraphale smiles. The smile shifts from adoring to slightly wicked and he says, “be _very_ thorough.”

Crowley’s breathing is ragged, but his whispering doesn’t stop. He moves down the bed and Aziraphale gathers his knees under him, pressing his hips upward.

Crowley writes -- whatever he is writing, invisibly, with fingers and lips -- on to the intimate scene in front of him. He presses his palms against the base of the angel’s thighs. He mouths and licks at his perineum, still whispering. Aziraphale moans, but is self-controlled enough to keep saying those incomprehensible words even as he shouts at the sensation of Crowley’s mouth on him.

Crowley’s fingertips are tracing circles around Aziraphale’s anus now, and it’s clear that the angel is struggling to retain control. Crowley presses a kiss there and then he propels himself up and over the angel’s back, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulder with one hand, guiding his cock with the other. As he presses in, Aziraphale cries out in overwhelmed pleasure, and Crowley’s arrhythmic hissing increases in volume and desperation. He finally slides fully home and leans forward over Aziraphale, insistently whispering into the angel’s ear. After a few gasping breaths Aziraphale returns to his recitation, and it’s Crowley’s turn to break, quivering and moaning. Then he begins whispering again, and slowly pulls almost all the way out.

His words shift into a driving rhythm, and his hips drive with it, slamming forward once, again, three times, four, and on the fifth he shouts and comes. But the angel doesn’t break rhythm; Aziraphale writhes under Crowley but never pauses in his speech.

Crowley pulls out and Aziraphale flinches but still doesn’t pause. “Go--Sa--Someone, we’re only halfway there,” Crowley remarks, looking haggard.

Aziraphale rolls over and cocks an eyebrow. He can’t speak until Crowley picks up the recitation, or narration, or invocation, whatever it is that they are both saying, so he waits, patiently, for Crowley to recover. Crowley obliges by beginning to speak again.

Aziraphale smiles up at him, a sloppy, tired, besotted grin. He reaches to the bedside table where there’s a glass of water. He drinks it down; Crowley watches as his Adam’s apple bobs. Then the glass obligingly refills itself and Aziraphale offers it to Crowley, taking over the burden of speech. Crowley glares at the glass -- perhaps he’s considering magicking it into something stronger than water -- but the angel frowns at him, and he sighs and pours the inoffensive stuff down his throat. He places the glass on the bedside table; in so doing he’s leaned across the angel’s hips and pressed against the stiff cock. 

Aziraphale gasps, his penis twitching. “If you please, I’d like you to attend to that next,” he says. It’s Crowley’s turn to cock an eyebrow. Already? He seems to be asking. Aziraphale hums. “Make me come now and by the time you return there I’ll be ready with a more feminine configuration,” he says. Crowley whines through his recitation and it looks for a moment as though he’s going to dive straight in, but he restrains himself. Both he and Aziraphale are back to their shared rhythmic speech as Crowley’s fingertips trace light designs all over the angel, spiraling in toward the crop of white curls at his center. The demon bends down.

Aziraphale is writhing, spreading his legs as wide as he can, as Crowley’s lips drop light kisses and inscrutable words all over Aziraphale’s balls. His fingers dance up the twitching cock, stalling for a moment just under the head, and Aziraphale cries out. Crowley follows his fingers with his tongue and then closes his mouth around him. Aziraphale has fists full of his hair now, and he’s shouting his poetry again, now that Crowley’s mouth is too full for speech. Just as Aziraphale is about to lose self-control, Crowley pops off and takes over the burden of words, stroking Aziraphale to shrieking climax as the demon continues to mutter.

They pause for a few minutes. Crowley seems spent; Aziraphale seems lost in bliss. Surely they’re done? But no -- tired though he clearly is, Crowley kisses his way down one leg and begins anew, at the angel’s toes, working his way up the front of the angel’s body this time.

It’s impossible to say how long it takes, but they never let up their speech, one or the other but usually both of them vocalizing all the way through Crowley’s thorough exploration of every inch of Aziraphale’s skin with lips, tongue, and fingertips. When Crowley finally reaches Aziraphale’s center a second time he finds the angel’s pussy throbbing for him, and he gives it all his attention until Aziraphale climaxes again, and then fills him with his cock, reaches his own peak, and collapses.

Their labored breathing fades. Then, they’re not breathing. Their mouths are still. A few minutes pass. Slowly, noises from the Mayfair streets creep in to the room. Time appears to have rebooted; it’s flowing normally again.

Finally, Crowley draws in a breath. “D’you think it worked?” he asks.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “I suppose there’s--”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”

Aziraphale pouts, or pretends to. His expression suggests mischief, however. “Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say ‘There’s only one way to find out.’”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You said it, not I.”

Crowley responds by coiling tightly around the angel like only a man-shaped serpent can, and Aziraphale holds him close.


	2. Cause

_Two weeks ago._

They can both sense it when they approach the bookshop. Heaven has been here, and Hell, too. The auras are disguised, so Aziraphale can’t identify the specific demons or angels involved, but there’s something powerful and dangerous lurking inside the door. 

“Don’t go in there,” Crowley says, his hand reaching out to halt the angel in his tracks. Pedestrians walk around them as though the pair were an inanimate obstacle, their human attention sliding off a demonic seeming.

“What have they done to my shop? What’s in there? Why can’t they just leave us alone?” Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands.

He tries to reach into the shop with his aura but Crowley halts that, too. “Don’t do that either. S’too risky.”

“Oh, what are we going to do?” Aziraphale wails. _Crowley, rescue me_ , he doesn’t say, but Crowley hears it loud and clear.

“We’re gonna get back. We’re gonna investigate. We’re gonna sssspring their bloody trap. And then we will sssend them a fucking messsage.” His teeth are very sharp.

Aziraphale doesn’t question how they both know that a trap awaits them inside; they just do. He lets Crowley lead them away to a favorite little French bakery to strategize. Once Aziraphale’s been fortified with coffee and pastries, they return to examine the bookshop from a distance. Afterward, they retreat to Crowley’s flat.

Eventually they are forced to admit that there’s nothing they can really do but walk through the front door and let the trap spring upon them -- for a trap it definitely is, one made from both Heavenly and Hellish magic. They just have to prepare as best as they can.

Crowley won’t let Aziraphale miracle any books out of the shop for fear that the trap must be attuned to exactly that kind of predictable angelic action. In any case, Aziraphale’s collection mostly focuses on the kinds of protections that could be laid with patience, not in urgent response to unknown offensive magic. They spend another day with Aziraphale drawing protective designs on each other’s clothes and Crowley brainstorming possible ways Heaven and Hell could have assembled a trap together. They’re not a creative bunch, is the thing, and they don’t have a lot of experience collaborating, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate them.

Still, Crowley is pretty sure he knows exactly what the trap will be, because there’s nothing either Upstairs or Downstairs likes more than symmetry in opposites.

That’s how, when they walk through the front door, Aziraphale is ready to prevent the crystal jug of holy water from falling, and Crowley puts the cast-iron coal scuttle of hellfire in a temporal stasis with a snap of his fingers, and it’s over as quickly as that. Heaven and Hell really were that lacking in the creativity department.

They look at each other. Aziraphale starts giggling helplessly.

Crowley is also laughing in relief, but there’s a hysterical edge to it. He manages to say: “Come on, angel, dispose of that before you splash me!” and that sobers Aziraphale enough for him to miracle the water away, decanter and all, to sprinkle over a local community garden. (Aziraphale knows Crowley can’t stand that particular garden anyway, because the plants are too lazy. The decanter is picked up by one of the ladies who works in the garden, and from then on everyone who drinks her cucumber water experiences unusually good health.)

Crowley is about to banish the bucket of Hellfire, but this time it’s Aziraphale who holds up a hand to stop him. “Would that--keep?” He asks. Crowley frowns. “It’s just -- it’s harder to obtain Hellfire than holy water, and I think perhaps we should consider strengthening our defenses, and it would be useful to have it available to test our wards.”

“If you think for a minute I’d let you _test_ any defensive magics on _yourself_ with _Hellfire_ , angel--”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale places a hand on his arm. Crowley is tense; Aziraphale can feel him vibrating from the sense memory of fire in the shop through that touch. “We must, don’t you see? We’ve worked together for so long, but we’ve never tried to protect each other against our own –” his eyes dart upwards—“well, that is, against our respective former sides before. This is all new. We can plan until the end of eternity, but ultimately there’s only one way to find out whether it will work when we need it to. And the situation appears to be rather urgent.”

“ _NO,_ ” Crowley begins his argument. “And furthermore, NO.”

But it’s futile; Crowley’s never been able to refuse the angel anything, especially when the bastard is right.

“I’m sending it to my flat, where it’s going to _starve_ ,” he says when he finally capitulates. He snaps both fingers, whereupon bucket, fire, and temporal stasis bubble all vanish. “It won’t get the bookshop today, or any day.”

Crowley’s no calmer. Aziraphale can see it happening in front of him: Crowley’s battle arousal is ebbing, and panic about fire in the bookshop is flowing into its place.

“No, it won’t. I know you’ll see to that,” Aziraphale says, and he reaches out to pull the demon to him and hug him tightly. He waits, patiently, through the rise and fall of Crowley’s shuddering panic attack. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, just emits a periodic shushing noise, petting the coppery hair.

Finally, when the demon’s shaking has subsided, Aziraphale pulls away. Still holding on to Crowley’s hand, he leads him to the backroom couch, and deposits him there. He fetches a bottle of whisky and two glasses and pours. Crowley accepts his gratefully but quietly.

“Now,” Aziraphale says, sipping the liquor and relishing its burn as it slides down his throat. So much more pleasant than the burn of Holy or Hellish fire. “We have my books back, and we’re all present and accounted for. It’s time to read and plan.”

They turn to the darkest shelves of the bookshop to do research. They figure out a new method to protect supernatural entities inhabiting corporeal bodies from metaphysical and physical attack. Actually, they develop two new methods, because the defenses for a demon must needs be different from those for an angel. Neither has ever been attempted before. It’s complicated, new magic, time consuming and likely very draining, so they’ll have to treat one of them at a time and recover in between.

They flip a coin. Crowley wins the toss, and he insists that Aziraphale be protected first.


	3. Test

_The morning after._

“Crowley, my love. Are you awake?”

Crowley mumbles incoherently against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Before we test, I want to have a look at our handiwork. But I can’t do it while I’m in my corporation. I’ll have to --go out of it.”

That wakes Crowley up. He writhes to position his body over Aziraphale’s, knees on either side of his hips, clutching at his shoulders. “S’dangeroussss, angel.”

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s cheeks with his hands. “I know you’ll protect my corporation.”

“Fucking _Hell_.” But Crowley brings his wings forth, mantling them both, his eyes flaring to golden.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and methodically detaches himself from his corporation. He feels Crowley flow into it, just a little, protecting the body both within and without. Aziraphale opens more eyes, seeing into a dozen more dimensions. Crowley has knife-edged wings in all of them, and snaky coils wrapping around beneath.

Aziraphale brings his focus onto the surface of the human corporation he usually wears. He can’t help but emit a pulse of honest pride at the spellwork they’ve woven around it. In angelic Sight, the body is covered all over with scrolling, twisting vines made of demonic energy. Their loops and curls fascinate, splitting and rejoining, weaving over and under in a seemingly endless tangle. And it is endless; it’s a magical Möbius strip, bending back on itself and repeating its paths forever, in many dimensions.

The demonic tattoo isn’t all of it, of course. On every vine and stem are delicate tracings of angelic energy. Each vine is entirely covered with a Heavenly pattern, orderly and repeating like Celtic knotwork, its regularity in defiance of the apparently random disorder of the spellwrought vines.

Its power is in its continuity. It’s a single spell, woven over the course of hours and hours, unbroken, the disparate magics separate but held together through the intricacy of their shared history and the force of their love for each other, the ends joined to the beginnings where their bodies melded together in lovemaking. The vines can trap and deflect Hellish attack, force it down endless byways, where it will be worn away by friction against the angelic wards until nothing remains.

Neither of them has the power to ward against a direct attack from a Lord high above their own stations, but these defenses aren’t designed to meet power with power. Instead, they misdirect, deflecting an attack and forcing it to spend its strength uselessly. Presumably the Lords of Heaven and Hell could figure out a counter, but they’ll have a hard time doing so without collaborating as closely as Aziraphale and Crowley did the night previously. (Aziraphale spares a moment for guilty pleasure in imagining the moment that Gabriel or Uriel or Michael learns about how Aziraphale and Crowley pulled off this particular trick. He almost wants to tell them himself, just to see their faces.)

Until they figure it out, Aziraphale’s soul and his human corporation will both be as safe as the two of their combined magics can make it. And with the generative power of their love woven into it, the pattern can heal. At least that’s their hypothesis.

Aziraphale shoves away any negative thoughts about impending assaults to just enjoy the spectacle of his own form, wreathed in the evidence of their joint work. “Oh, Crowley. It’s so beautiful, what we’ve done. You’re so very clever. And your fingers, ahhh, they’re so skilled.”

Crowley is having none of the praise. “Stop ogling yourself and get back in your body, angel,” he demands.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and complies, his soul brushing luxuriantly against Crowley’s as the demon retreats from his small intrusion into Aziraphale’s corporation.

Crowley relaxes, putting his wings away, and slumps back on the bed. Aziraphale attempts to get up, but he can’t. (He may not be trying very hard.) Crowley has made himself very heavy and _very_ slack, his limbs defying physical laws.

“Darling, do let me get up. You may not be hungry but after last night’s work I’m _famished_.”

“Mnuh. Wanna sleep a few days.”

“We can’t, we have tickets to the National Theatre tonight.”

Crowley grumbles, but he does let Aziraphale go.

Several hours later, Crowley meanders out of his bedroom to find the angel at the kitchen bartop, his breakfast long consumed. There’s a lit candle on the counter, a three-wicked one scented with hazelnut and vanilla. It has glitter in the wax. Crowley sneezes.

“Why can’t you use proper beeswax candles? These wretched scented jobs make my nose itch.”

“I like the smell,” Aziraphale says absently, and then he holds his hand over the flames.

Crowley lunges forward, pulling Aziraphale’s hand out, and hissing. Aziraphale fixes him with a stern look. “Crowley. It’s no use unless we test it and find out its limits. I am quite capable of protecting myself from an ordinary flame without your assistance. Do let me proceed.” Crowley snarls but doesn’t argue. Aziraphale knows he’s won, and holds his hand over the flames again. “I don’t feel anything on my hand. I do feel a little draw on my energy. I’m not entirely sure whether I’m doing it unconsciously or if the ward is holding. It’s time for a more challenging test. The scalpel one, I think.” He produces a gleaming medical knife.

They had agreed that neither of them could see proceeding directly to Hellfire. They would begin with a lightly cursed blade: a very sharp, very clean knife, held very briefly in the bucket of flame they’d saved from the trap. They’d proceed, in increments, to the most powerfully cursed object Crowley could create in his flat.

It is a tedious process that takes several days because of the number and complexity of the curses Crowley has to perform. They take breaks for the theater, for Crowley to nap, and for an occasional snog, but Crowley is anxious about the tests and can’t relax enough to enjoy their bed either asleep or awake. At one point Aziraphale confuses a butcher by politely requesting a pint of blood from a freshly killed lamb, while Crowley is off thieving some freshly banked umbilical-cord blood.

Every cursed blade turns away from Aziraphale’s skin without harming him, at least when wielded by Aziraphale.

The next tests are harder; Aziraphale requires Crowley to attempt to strike him with the increasingly strong blades while also putting demonic force behind the blows. Just attempting to perform a light stabbing—just a little jab, really, with the barely-cursed scalpel—gives Crowley another panic attack. Aziraphale brings him through it with whispered endearments and proofs that he isn’t harmed, not even slightly. He heaps praise on Crowley for his clever spell invention and craftsmanship. They quit for the day, and Aziraphale prepares better for the morrow, offering Crowley care both before and after each experiment, to lessen the possibility of trauma, new or remembered.

The wards deflect all of the demon-wielded blades. Finally, only one set of tests remains: direct actual Hellfire.

It’s evening on the sixth day, and Crowley suggests that they stop for the night and begin fresh in the morning. Crowley is feigning nonchalance, but Aziraphale can tell that he has lost his nerve. He’s going to refuse to let the angel touch Hellfire.

Aziraphale has to know. So he wrings pleasure out of Crowley three times that night, putting him into a profound, exhausted sleep. Then he dresses himself in a set of Crowley’s pyjamas and goes to test the Hellfire on his own.


	4. Effect

Crowley wakes. There’s a burning scent, with the distinctive smell of Hellfire. Aziraphale is not in the bed. Instantly frantic, Crowley jumps up and tears through the flat to the fortified closet where he’d stored the bucket of Hellfire, shouting “No no no no no no no--!” He flings the door open, and dark smoke billows out.

Aziraphale is standing beside the Hellfire bucket inside the closet, covered in soot.

He’s entirely nude. There’s a pile of ashes at his feet.

He’s giddy. He’s holding a flaming coffee mug in his left hand and an empty one in his right. “Look what I can do, Crowley!” he giggles, and he pours the flame from one mug to the other.

“ _ANGEL!_ ” Crowley roars, not sure if he wants to hug him or to kill him, but he can’t do the first because if he embraces his angel while he’s holding fucking Hellfire he might cause the second.

“It’s harmless, it’s harmless Crowley, we did it!” he says, and before Crowley can react, he pours the Hellfire from the mug onto his wrist. Crowley starts forward but Aziraphale drops both mugs and stiff-arms him with the arm that has Hellfire dancing on it, and Crowley freezes.

The flames lick and crawl around the angel’s arm, hungry, looking for a way in, but Crowley can see they’re starving, weakening, even as they wander to Aziraphale’s torso, finally guttering out as they get down to his knees. They’re both looking down now, at the ashes at Aziraphale’s feet, whereupon Aziraphale looks up at him sheepishly. “I’m very sorry about your pyjamas, I didn’t stop to think that the wards wouldn’t protect my clothes, only my corporation.”

“You maddening, impetuous, ridiculous, stupid--” by the time he’s gotten this far in his insults, Crowley has to stop, because he’s pressing every inch of himself onto miraculously unharmed angel. Aziraphale’s musical laugh is ringing in his ears. Crowley banishes the cursed bucket and fragments of Hellfire-burned coffee mugs to Ligur’s desk in Hell, and then drags his angel -- who’s still laughing -- back to the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> I do plan to write a second part where they ward Crowley, but I haven't worked out all the details of how that will be different yet. If you have any great ideas, please leave them in the comments!
> 
> Thanks to my very accommodating beta for helping me out with this one even though they're not all that in to smut. (You're a trooper.)
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my soul. Thank you very much for reading.


End file.
